


Good Things

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Betrayal, Bottom Tony Stark, Felching, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, POV Tony Stark, Podfic Available, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Rimming, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Top Steve Rogers, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: He’d crawl to Steve if he had to. He could be stripped of his armor, his money, his name, and he’d still follow Steve. Tony had been bleeding and bruised, arc reactor broken, and he had still climbed out of the bunker to see Steve’s retreating figure.Steve is good.Tony deserves good things.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 129
Collections: Stony*, Team Angst





	Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> [Podfic available by LenkaVittoriaElisse16](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831717)
> 
> Written for stevetonygames 2020  
> Bingo Square: Betrayal  
> Team: Angst (go team angst, go team angst!)
> 
> Thank you to OCLuna, tree, and lexi for the beta!

“I keep hurting you. But you stay.” Steve traces the line of Tony’s lips with a careful finger. It’s so unlike the brutality of dropping the shield on Tony’s chest. When they fuck, Steve is soft, attentive, giving. Only ruthless when Tony talks back, which is often. Always.

Stark men don’t back down. Even when they’re getting fucked in the ass by Captain America.

“Why?” Steve pulls his hand and backs away to the middle of the workshop. He looks like he belongs there. 

Tony doesn’t have an answer for that. 

Well, he has one. He’s too much of a coward to say it, though. He’s a fool who thinks love is real. 

Steve inside him is the closest approximation to that. 

For a rich boy, he’s always begged for scraps. It wouldn’t be different when it comes to Steve. 

First, from his dear, deceased father Howard, who had shoved Tony to a corner in the basement and didn’t let him out until he’d finished perfecting a circuit board. Jarvis hadn’t been allowed to bring him food, only a glass of water. _Food will slow you down, boy._

Tony has fasted since he was seven years old. Decades of skipping meals wasn’t going to change that. 

Steve stares at the plate of untouched sandwiches in the corner of the worktable. If Tony wasn’t tied up, he’d have thrown it to the floor and made the bots clean it. 

“Answer, Tony.” 

Tony stares at Steve, defiant, even tied up and strapped to his own chair—the one _he_ paid for, because apparently Captain America can do no wrong and was pardoned by the President. 

Steve comes running back to Tony. Stepping out of a Stark Industries jet with his hands on his belt. Tony watches Steve take in the changes in the Compound from the year they were gone. Steve, the arrogant bastard, approves with a nod and a satisfied smile. 

Then, he seeks out Tony mere hours after landing.

As if he had the right to barge into the workshop unannounced. 

Tony opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. 

“You eat when I tell you to eat. Don’t you want to make me happy?” Steve stands in the middle of the workshop, hands on his hips. 

His belt is undone and Tony stares at the golden buckle. He had made one for Steve's suit long ago, a mix of leather and kevlar with a vibranium buckle. He had presented it to Steve with a smile and had been rewarded with a blowjob. Now, this new belt is leather strapped, brown, and looks like an accusation.

All Tony wants is to make Steve happy. 

He lives for it. Tony chases Steve anytime he’s in the room. He has FRIDAY keep track of Steve’s movements in the workshop. The Stark satellites were programmed to keep tabs on Steve while he and other Avengers were on the run.

All he wants is Steve.

That’s why he’s here—strapped to a chair in Steve’s favorite ropes. 

The workshop is cool. The hairs from his legs rise up, but his dick remains hard.

He hates how he’s been conditioned to respond to Steve—the sound of his voice, his demands. 

He hates Steve. He hates him so much. Tony hates how he still craves the touch. Steve’s fingers on his back manhandling him to his knees. Steve’s fingers opening him up. Steve’s tongue lapping at his cock. 

Tony hates how much he needs this man. 

He doesn’t need Steve.

Maybe he could build a robot that looks exactly like Steve Rogers and keep him in the basement. The robot would fuck Tony the way he wants to be fucked. It wouldn’t talk unless it’s programmed to. It would be nothing like FRIDAY or JARVIS. Just mass with cock and synthetic flesh. 

It’ll fuck Tony good. Then, he wouldn’t have to open his legs for Steve to slide in between.

“Tony, answer.” Steve walks to the north side of the workshop and presses a few panels.

“You didn’t change the password,” Steve almost sounds relieved, as if there’s still hope for them.

Tony didn’t revoke his access. 

He sees the corner of Steve’s lips mimic a smile. 

“I’m lazy.”

“No, you’re not.” Steve turns, a paddle in hand. He looks at Tony for a beat then grabs a whip. He runs his fingers on the edges then sets it back. “You want this, don’t lie. Only I can give this to you.”

No, Tony can build a fucking robot and fuck himself with it.

He looks down at his cock, straining against the ropes binding him to the chair. His wrists ache with the burn. Tony feels lightheaded with anticipation. 

Steve is probably calculating his pulse right now. He sighs with resignation and puts the paddle back. Tony tries not to whine. He wishes for a gag so Steve wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing his voice. 

Steve doesn’t deserve that.

He walks back to Tony, footsteps controlled and measured. Steve stops when his boots touch Tony’s bare toes. He stares at Tony almost with care. Almost with affection. Almost as if this isn’t punishment. As if it’s love. 

It’s anything but that.

Steve runs a thumb over Tony’s jaw, scratching at the hair on his chin before pressing his thumbs to Tony’s lips. He pushes at them until Tony cracks them open.

Steve plunges his thumb inside Tony’s mouth.

Tony’s a weak man and when he stares into Steve’s eyes, he falls to his demise.

Eyes closed, Tony sucks. Wetting the pad of Steve’s fingers with his flat tongue. He grumbles at the saltiness, pleased with the taste.

“You missed me,” Steve says, like the statement is a fact. As if he could read how much Tony ached for him those months they spent apart. His body has always been obvious. It had no shame, it never wanted to hide. Shit, that’s why he built the armor. 

“Tony, answer me, sweetheart.” Steve sounds bored. But Tony knows better—for all the years they spent fucking each other’s brains out, Tony’s learned that Steve needs validation. He needs to hear the words even if he’s a goddamn bastard who never tells Tony how he feels. 

“To an extent,” he bites out, irritated with himself. It’s the truth. 

Steve smiles, smug with the answer. “I’ll do you good, Tony.” 

He bites hard on the thumb hoping Steve will slap him. 

Tony deserves that. He’s being good.

Bad. 

Whatever. 

Same shit. 

He has a knack for loving awful things. 

He should have listened to his mother. _You deserve good things._

The Stark account had showered him with a mansion and a butler at birth. He is graced with the Stark name and the genius to prove it. Howard had gone on and on about Tony’s worth as a Stark man. Dear old dad had never let him forget to whisper his gratefulness for being a Stark. _The world is his oyster._

They had money; an entire vault that will never stop multiplying as long as Tony works hard, like Howard. Every Christmas, holiday, birthday, he had received the fanciest gadgets and upgrades to his own workshop.

No toys. Toys were for children and Tony was a _Stark._

He was different and distinct from the rest of the world. There’d never be a normal for him because he’s a genius. Howard said so.

He had good things, a whole mansion, several estates, and a company that would be his. 

It wasn’t a matter of deservingness. He already had everything.

And yet.

He’s greedy, a war-monger, and he’s thirsty for whatever else the world—Steve—could give him.

“You’re still angry, aren’t you?” Steve flicks his nose like they’re children, as if Tony’s wrath is adorable. Like they’re school children teasing each other on the playground. Steve could make a million promises by the swing set and Tony would believe him.

Tony huffs. “What, you think you can fuck my anger out of me?”

“I can try.” Steve nods, earnest, determined, undaunted by the challenge. Arrogance. 

They were both hubristic in opposing ways. Steve will punch his way to prove he’s right. Tony will laugh at him and cut the wire. 

He’s better than Steve. 

Tony’s better than _this_ , naked for Steve’s pleasure.

Yet, here he is.

Steve bends down, on his knees for Tony, yet Tony’s the one at his mercy. 

Steve could kill him. He could put his hands on Tony and choke him until all the air from his lungs are gone. It would be the last thing he sees—Steve towering over him. Steve’s hands on him. Even when Steve’s baring his teeth, veins on the corner of his forehead bulging, Tony would die happily.

He’s a horrible man. 

He should be better.

_He?_

Who’s _he?_

Tony can’t tell who he’s referring to anymore.

Steve watches him like a hawk, commandeering attention. As always, Tony is like a dog, hounding for Steve’s attention.

His eyes are on Tony. Not even on his dick. He stares into Tony’s eyes like he’s hoping to find forgiveness. No, fuck no, there’s nothing there but consent. That’s all Tony can give.

His eyes are so blue, steady, hopeful. 

Hope is for children. 

Being around Steve Rogers is like holding a knife to his own throat and being unsure if he wants to be slit open. 

Tony presses forward. Everytime. 

Lets himself bleed for this man who doesn’t deserve him. Or is it the other way around—maybe his mother is a liar—too soft to tell him truths. 

The world is a brutal place. He doesn’t deserve nice things. 

Tony attracts nasty, terrible things. Maybe it’s karma. All the ghosts, dead from SI weapons, haunting him, cursing him. 

Maybe he doesn’t deserve nice people in his life.

There’s Rhodey and Pepper. 

Then, Steve comes into his life, thawed and warm, crashing into Tony. 

No, that’s not true. Tony falls from the sky and opens his eyes and sees his face. Bright like the sun. Tony burns for him. 

He wishes someone would douse him down. Extinguish the rage. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. 

Steve lifts his hands, gesturing to them with a pointed glance, then places them to Tony’s thighs. He rubs up and down, fingers kneading the flesh of his inner thighs. 

“I hurt you.” There’s awe in the way Steve’s voice goes low. 

Tony had stopped feeling ashamed long, long ago.

He stretches his neck, taunting, puffing his chest to put his scar on full display.

Steve’s given him many things throughout the years—a meal, several kisses down his spine, a gorgeous smile from across the room during debriefings—and he also gave Tony a—

 _I deserve good things,_ Tony thinks. He turns the words over and over again, willing himself to believe them.

 _Is this a good thing?_ He wonders if the zig-zag lines maring his chest should be considered a blessed mark or disfigurement.

Who the fuck was he— _of course,_ Steve meant for it to hurt. Steve could have stopped, dropped the shield to the side of Tony’s head, pried off the suit, kissed him stupid and maybe even then, Tony would have accepted the apology.

But _this,_ tied to a chair of his own making, Steve kneeling before him like a prayer, a mad man repenting and asking for penance.

It feels like punishment.

Steve’s given him something akin to love. That’s all Tony can have of him—his dick, his hand, his mouth. 

Steve’s hands close into a fist around Tony’s shaft. He pumps it twice, slow and careful, unlike the way he closed his fist and punched Tony’s helmet in the bunker. 

Tony looks down, catching Steve’s large hands over the head of his dick. He scoops the pre-come and spreads it with two fingers. 

He’ll never understand why Steve looks at him like he’s something special. 

Tony’s just ordinary.

Genius, yes.

But a man is still a man who walks around gods, aliens, and other monsters. 

Steve fits into the third category. 

But Steve is a monster of his own making.

Tony likes lists, especially if divided in categories, organized by columns regarding their themes and noting their importance.

In the crevices of his brain, there’s a huge black book titled _Steve._

There should be a second title there: _hopes and regrets._

But Tony doesn’t have the will to keep hoping.

Hope is a dangerous thing. It’s like driving his car recklessly at maximum speed, wanting to die, then wishing to survive. 

Steve kisses his left knee, then the space right above it. 

His beard tickles.

There’s that saying: stare at something long enough and it will vanish.

Tony glances down, catching the scar. One end begins two inches under the left collarbone and spans diagonally to the end of his right rib. 

He’s observed this scar everyday in the mirror for the last eleven months. Steve's an artist even without trying. It's not pretty, but not all paintings have the idyllic quality of a Kinkade. The wound bruised like a Monet though, like the Japanese Footbridge: motley red gashes adorning the worse parts, then bright yellows and pale greys around the edges. It’s healed over into a white line.

Like an afterthought. It’s Steve’s signature. His mark on Tony’s body.

Steve lets his dick go. It stands proud and defiant in between them. He traces the scarring slow and unhurried. His other hand cups Tony’s face. 

“I’m so sorry.” Steve swallows. He’s cried about this nine times since landing in the Compound. He’s said the same speech at least four times now, not waiting for Tony's reply. Steve might as well gag him because he's never able to talk once Steve starts brooding and making excuses, justifying allegations, avowing new promises.

He promised not to hurt Tony again.

Well, Tony wants it to hurt.

At least that’s something real. 

He deserves that.

“So you said.”

“I am.”

Steve Rogers has mastered how to offer a non-apology while looking earnest at the same time.

“Yes, so you say.”

“Tony.”

“Just shut up and fuck me.” 

“Tony, please.” Steve bites his lip. Tony wishes there was blood coming out. He could taste the acid and iron from his own mouth. 

“Shut up. Do your job and do it right. Fuck me, alright, Steve? That’s all you're good for. Why else would you be here? Fuck me or leave.” Tony barks out, hoping the statement slices Steve in the same way the shield cut up his skin.

“No, Tony. I’ll be good. I’ll be better. I promise.” Steve shakes his head. He follows the edges and bumps of the scar. He stares at it—whether in shock or in shame, Tony doesn’t know. But Steve’s always proud of everything he does—and maybe this isn’t disfigurement. 

Not to Steve. 

“Shut up.” He doesn’t want to hear any more excuses.

Steve tweaks his nipples, then uses the hand on Tony’s face to tilt his chin. He presses a chaste kiss on Tony’s forehead, his nose, then inches his way down to his lips.

“Stop being soft. Fuck me like a whore.” Tony says before Steve can kiss his mouth.

He wants to be a faceless hole to fuck. It’s easier if Steve just uses his mouth and fucked him from the back.

God, it’s been so long.

“No, you’re not a whore, sweetheart.”

“I am.” 

“I don’t fuck whores.” Steve looks at him like he’s precious, but they both know Tony’s far from something to be cherished.

_You deserve good things._

And yet, he surrounds himself with people who treat him like scum.

Tony covers his moans with a huff. Steve twists his nipples, hard. “Well you made me into a whore. A dirty little slut. Just for you.”

“You’re not a whore, Tony.” Steve gets behind him and unbinds Tony from the chair. He doesn’t realize his hands and fingers are going numb from the position. The release feels wonderful but it’s not what he needs. 

“I am,” he says, just to be contrary. 

It would be better if Steve treated him like a whore picked up from the side of the road. If they didn’t have any history of soft smiles and inside jokes. 

_Shellhead. Winghead._

A lot would be easier if Tony forgot him. Forgot them.

But there’s a scar on his body that proves Steve had said he loved him and then lied to him.

Love is a burning thing. 

Steve bends down, undoing the bind on Tony’s feet and legs. He hauls Tony up, carrying his ass to the sofa like a child.

Steve used to do that—they used to—when Tony would fall asleep in the workshop, Steve would come down and—

Tony swallows, begging his stomach to stay calm. If this is a fight, he is determined to come out victorious.

Steve settles on the sofa. How does he make things look easy? Tony is a volcano waiting to erupt. Steve is an earthquake that shakes only when all the plates align—only when he has no other choice.

This is bullshit. He hates it. Steve examines him with tenderness, as if he gives a fuck about Tony's life. 

In the bunker Steve had been out for blood. His eyes were hard with fear.

He places Tony over his lap. Ass up. 

Steve arranges his hands so they settle at the small of his back.

There’s a squeeze at his wrist and Tony knows it’s a warning.

_Don’t move._

“I am. I’m a whore. I fucked so many people after you. I’m a slut for it, Steve. You’re nothing. You were just someone who fucked me on the regular. But you left. I had to fill my hole.”

Steve’s breathing goes ragged and a smack lands on his right ass cheek.

Yes. Good.

“The moment I got out of the hospital I drank myself stupid and fucked the first person I saw. I’m just that much of a cock slut, Steve. I don’t discriminate. You weren’t there so what the fuck did it matter?” 

Another smack, this time on the left. It’s still too soft. 

“You’re not. You’re lying.”

Tony twists up, trying to catch Steve’s face. It’s useless though; Steve shoves his face to the cushions. Tony wiggles his ass; the friction of his dick on Steve’s jeans chafe the back of his thighs. 

“I’m not lying. Did you think you were important? That you mattered to me? That I wouldn’t fuck anyone else after you maimed me?” 

_Smack. Smack._

_Smack._

_Smack._

Steve rewards him with two hits on each cheek. Harder, but not hard enough to break skin.

Steve hadn’t cared in the bunker and yet he’s cautious now. 

The irony doesn’t escape Tony. 

“Tony.” Steve warns, voice lowering to a growl. “I said I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be good.” 

“Why are you going to be good now?” Tony asks, desperate for the answer.

Steve caresses his ass, the sting burning more under his large hands.

“That implies you weren’t good to me before.”

“I thought I was. You deserve good things, Tony.”

Tony pulls his head up, catching their reflection in the dark glass. His eyes are bright, almost manic. But that’s what Steve does to him. 

Steve is as still as a statue, hands rubbing Tony’s lower back, following the trail to his ass and the back of his thighs. “I do?”

“Yes.” Steve bends, kissing his wrists. He leans to the small drawer beside the sofa and reaches for the bottle of lube.

The sound of the cap opening echoes in the room. Tony waits in anticipation. 

Steve, attentive as ever, warms the lube on his fingertips, then pries Tony’s ass open. “You know what you are, Tony?”

Tony stays quiet, afraid to hear the response. Scared the worse would cut like a lie. 

Steve Rogers is a liar. He had lied about Tony’s parents for years.

Lies of omissions are still lies. 

He had fucked Tony all the time and came inside him and kept secrets. 

Steve spanks him, once, just right under his ass. Then, he forces Tony’s ass cheeks further apart and spits. The salvia is warm as it drips down his hole to his sac. His dick is so hard and his hands are shaking from trying to keep his body up. 

“Mine, Tony. Mine. Right, darling? You said before, you said so.” Steve presses his finger inside, stretching Tony’s rim. Once it reaches his knuckles, Steve thrusts in and out. Bored, assured, as if they all had the time in the world. As if Tony is his.

“Not anymore. I belong to me. Fuck you.” Tony pants as Steve digs his finger deeper; he fucks it in and out quick, knowing Tony can take it. Then, he adds a second finger, circling the rim before spitting on Tony again. 

The saliva and lube mix and he wonders how it must look. How red and battered his ass is going to be once this is over. 

Across the way, the mirror reflects Tony’s broken up face. Steve’s calculating eyes are on his body, focused. Steve sits forward, pushing Tony to the couch and laying him out on all four. 

“Stay.”

Steve goes to the cabinet and grabs a foam mat and a blanket. He sets them on the floor and gestures for Tony to come down. 

Tony pushes from his arms, then drops to the floor on his hands and knees. 

He’d crawl to Steve if he had to. He could be stripped of his armor, his money, his name, and he’d still follow Steve. Tony had been bleeding and bruised, arc reactor broken, and he had still climbed out of the bunker to see Steve’s retreating figure.

Steve is good. 

Tony deserves good things. 

Steve is good, but while he’s nice, he isn’t kind. He uses gentleness as a weapon. 

But Tony knows better: _Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close._

There’s a warm hand pressing the small of his back. 

Steve tucks Tony’s pelvis up and spreads his legs with a light touch. Then, there’s the rustling of clothes. An ominous click. 

_Yes. Good._

Tony closes his eyes. Waiting. He breathes, in and out. He wants this. He’s proving something. He doesn’t need Steve after this. He’s never needed Steve. 

There’s a long beat where nothing happens. 

Tony blinks his eyes open, catching their reflection in the glass panel. Steve’s heaving, but Tony can hardly hear it with the sound of his own blood rushing to his head. 

Steve wraps the belt around his hands, once, twice, three times—

They lock eyes in the mirror. Steve’s looming over his ass, his entire body. Steve’s so huge even when on his knees. “You’re good, right? I’ll fuck you if you’re good. Are you good?”

Tony bows his head. “No.”

“You are, Tony. You’re good. You need to believe that too, sweetheart.”

“I’m not.” 

Steve whips the belt, slapping the middle of his ass. His eyes sting with tears and he bites down. The shock will fade and Tony won’t feel a thing. 

“You’re good.”

“No,” Tony grits out, pushing his body further up. 

In the glass panel, Steve sighs, brings the belt back down to Tony’s ass. He hits three consecutive times. The final blow is just under his ass, smacking at the thin flesh of his thighs. 

“Harder.”

“No.” Steve presses Tony’s face to the floor and hitches his ass up higher. “Not until you’re good.”

“I’m never going to be good.” 

_...enough for you._

Steve’s a bastard, just like Howard. Never satisfied. Only taking the salvageable parts of Tony Stark and forcing him to be something good, someone functional. 

“When will you realize that you’re amazing, Tony? Believe me. You are.” Steve sounds defeated. Tony shouldn’t care. He should learn how to stop documenting the tone of Steve’s voice, his expressions, his postures. “You’re beautiful. Just like this. Mine.” 

They know each other too well. Steve will never be sorry, and Tony will love him anyway.

“Then why’d you—fuck you. Just get on with it.” This is the last time, Tony promises himself. One more time for a goodbye, then he’ll exorcise Steve from his life. “Hit me or leave, Steve. You’re useless.”

“Hush, now.” Tony hears the quick whipping before the belt cracks on his ass. “I’ll take care of you.” 

This isn't love, not by a long shot, but it’s the only thing he’s willing to give to Steve these days. Tony's so hard his dick is leaking on the blanket. He wishes he didn’t need this. 

Another smack. This time Steve uses the belt buckle.

_Good. Yes._

His eyes sting and it should feel like a betrayal to be hit by someone he trusts. 

Tony lets the tears fall. This time he has a reason to cry. He’s not alone in his workshop staring at the shield while Steve’s across the country. This time, Steve is here, making him cry.

“More. Harder.” 

Steve obliges, silent. Tony doesn’t bother looking at their reflection. He doesn’t want to see Steve rocking on his heels at every blow. 

Lube trickles down from his hole to his crack. He feels Steve’s salvia now dry and caked on his rim. It goes on, Steve keeps using the buckle, until finally, he drops it to the floor. Then, he’s using his hands to soothe the blows. 

Tony, weak, looks up at the reflection. Steve’s kneeling over his ass, pulling the cheeks apart before diving in. He flattens his tongue, licks Tony’s rim with that goddamn beard of his scratching his cheeks, making the blows sting even more. 

Steve kneads his cheeks one last time before pulling away for the lube. Without warning, he shoves two fingers up Tony, brutal and restless, unlike the controlled blows from the belt. 

“I’ll be good to you,” Steve says, scissoring him open in quick, efficient strokes. There’s nothing gentle about this now. “Haven’t I been good to you?”

“No.” Tony moans, fucking back on Steve’s fingers. 

Steve pulls them away, the fucking bastard. “I’m good to you, Tony. Don’t lie.”

“No, you’re not.” He pushes back, seeking Steve’s fingers. He needs them. Now. One more time. Then, it’ll be over. Can’t he have one good fuck before a clean break? 

Steve circles his rim, teasing. “Tony, you know that’s not true. You said, I’m your one good thing. You said that, Tony, don’t you remember?” 

Steve punctuates the words with hard thrusts and adds a third finger. Tony must look wanton, all stretched out, leaking with spit and lube.

“I don’t remember.”

“Think. You can remember,” Steve removes his fingers and unzips his jeans. Across in the glass panel, Tony sees that Steve doesn’t even bother to remove his pants. He just pulls them to his mid-thighs, lubes up his cock, and presses the blunt head on Tony’s rim.

Inch by inch, he drives in. “Do you remember now, sweetheart? You said it.” 

“Just fuck me. Harder. Harder. Come on,” Tony uses his arms as leverage and pushes back until Steve’s fully seated. He rocks forward and back, moaning when Steve hits his prostate. Tony glances in the mirror; he’s a masochist—that’s why he’s here. 

Steve’s behind him, smug with a slight smile. He catches Tony in the panel, pausing to say, “You’re my one good thing too,” before he grabs Tony’s hips and sets a quick pace. “Oh, fuck, Tony, Tony.” Steve thrusts manically, groaning loud. “I’m gonna come inside you, and then I’ll keep fucking you until you come, sweetheart.” 

Steve leans forward, his chest to Tony’s back. He whispers filthy things that sound like promises. Tony’s not in his right mind because he thinks he hears Steve say something about love and lies. 

Steve presses in, once, twice, and he’s spurting his come inside Tony. “Fuck, fuck...uh, Tony.” 

Steve stops for a beat, then pulls Tony by his waist and lies on the floor so that Tony’s straddling his hips. 

Tony rocks up and down, taking what he wants from Steve. The bastard is still hard, and growing even harder as Tony shoves himself down.

In this position, Tony can’t see Steve. He never wants to see Steve anymore, but for this final moment, he wishes—he can only see himself—his lust-blown eyes, the sweat on his chest. His reflection is worse.

Tony sits up and twists, so he’s straddling Steve from the front. He looks down and wants to punch the awestruck expression from Steve’s face. 

One last time. 

Steve rests a hand on his hips, supporting Tony as he slides up and down Steve’s shaft. It's a goddamn mess in his hole, filled with spit, lube, and Steve's own come. Tony curls his toes as his belly heats with the impending orgasm. 

He stares at Steve, open mouthed, whispering something—Tony doesn't want to hear it. Tony forces his eyes open, taking in Steve’s blown pupils. 

"You're gorgeous, Tony. My good thing," Steve inhales, plants his feet and drives his hips up to meet Tony's thrusts. 

“Not yours,” Tony shakes his head, groaning as Steve hits just the right spot. 

Not anymore.

He catalogues the lines on Steve’s forehead. The slope of his nose. Bad things can be wrapped up in pretty, deceiving packages. Tony opens it up and keeps it anyway. 

Steve wraps a hand around his dick and starts jerking him off. It’s just like old times, like being in the field, they work together efficiently. Steve twists his hands the way Tony likes it. He knows how to play Tony like a fiddle. Tony wishes he could delete both their brains so they’d have no memories of how much they love to hurt each other—and how much loving each other hurts. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming, fuck, keep going.” Tony rides in a ruthless manner, fucking Steve’s come back inside himself. 

“Fuck.” Steve smacks his ass with so much force, Tony topples over and their lips meet in a manic, desperate kiss.

And he’s weak for it.

Their mouths open. Steve kisses him slow, as if they have all the time in the world. 

“Fuck,” Tony leans away, panting as Steve jacks him until he comes all over Steve’s chest. 

A different marking for Steve.

Tony wears scars on his chest.

Steve has come on the column of his throat and his sternum. But he can wipe the come—no, scum—away.

Tony can’t rub the scars from his chest off.

Tony stops moving, petulant, and Steve fucks into his twitching hole until he comes for the second time. 

Tony pulls off quickly, letting the come dribble down his thighs and on Steve’s pelvis. He runs his ass over Steve’s torso, up and down, once, twice. Then, he scoots forward until his ass is right in front of Steve’s awaiting mouth. 

Steve licks him clean, lapping as Tony trembles and shudders. 

Tony drops beside Steve. He wants to kiss him, badly, and pretend everything is alright—live in a fantasy where Steve never lies, where Tony isn't weak for his smile, where they were happy and honest about love. 

He inches closer to Steve, but stops before their bodies can touch. If they don’t touch, Tony doesn’t have to pull away.

“You know, for a long time, I thought you were nice. You are. But you’re—I thought you were a good thing. My good thing.”

“Sweetheart, Tony—”

“But I was wrong.” 

“Tony, please.”

Tony hushes him, wishing to run a finger over Steve’s cupid bow. He resists. The fire is gone. There’s no more heat in his belly, no anger.

“This is the last time,” Tony presses a kiss on Steve’s lips, ignoring the sting of his eyes; focusing on the burn in his ass cheeks instead. “I deserve good things.” He sighs, pulls away, and stands. 

He looms over Steve, naked and unsure, “And you’re not it... You’re not good for me anymore.” 

Tony turns away and listens to Steve zip his pants. He holds his breath until Steve leaves.

* * *

The next day, Tony enters his workshop to find Steve, still in the same jeans and t-shirt from last night. His eyes are bloodshot, lips in a firm line.

“Get out,” Tony stops at the door. 

Steve leans forward and grabs something to his left. It’s his utility belt from the suit. The vibranium buckle gleams under the workshop lights. Tony swallows as Steve wraps it around his hands and beckons him forward. “I need you, too.” 

“Steve, stop. I told you—”

“I’m still yours, Tony. We’re still a good thing. I’ll prove you wrong.”

Tony eases forward, a curse on his lips, and then he replies—

**Author's Note:**

> "Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close." -Stephen King

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Good Things - Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831717) by [LenkaVittoriaElisse16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenkaVittoriaElisse16/pseuds/LenkaVittoriaElisse16)




End file.
